


and the fault is my own

by jirluvien



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Hockey RPF
Genre: Aromantic, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Author Is Overly Fond of Italics, Goalies, M/M, Queerplatonic Relationships, please love philosophy as much as the author and Johnson do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 11:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15142448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jirluvien/pseuds/jirluvien
Summary: It’s hard to commit to anything when you’re an undrafted goalie prone to some sort of vicious reverse form of solipsism, but John manages. That is, when he's not suddenly asking questions in class, clutching empty coffee cups in despair or trying to somehow become a functional adult.John Johnson picks up hockey before he can even read; he picks up reading when hockey isn't enough; and then he stops picking up altogether. That's when John meets Freddie Andersen... and doesn't fall in love.





	and the fault is my own

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 Fandom Aspec Challenge's first prompt: coming out.
> 
> Title from _Somewhere I Belong_ by Linkin Park. If this fic had a theme song, it would be that one.

John’s life comes in counts of two. He has two parents who love him very much, a gentle mother who wants nothing but happiness for him and a strict but just father who pushes him to do his best. He comes from two places, two great cities in two different states. He was supposed to have a twin, but instead he gets two equal names and becomes John Johnson. He has two feet, and two skates that fit on them.

He has two loves in his life: hockey is the first one, crisp like the winter air in his earliest memories, those of two different hockey sticks on a frozen pond. He remembers reaching for the bigger, sturdier one; the one that’s better for batting pucks away, the one that fits in his hand like it was meant to be there all this time. The second love comes way later, and it’s nothing like the sharp and clean-cut love for hockey; this love is quieter but simmering, smelling of library books and headaches, and burns where the love for open ice freezes. John doesn’t know what ‘philosophy’ means yet, but he will, over time, when he splits his time between practice and reading. One love for his body and one for his mind should be all he needs.

John’s life comes in counts of two, but he would like to have a third one day. Three is a prettier number than two; it’s the number in all the fairy tales. But John’s life isn’t a fairy tale.

John’s life is a lie.

 

 

When John was a kid, he wanted to be like Patrick Roy. There’s no I in ‘team’, but goalies can be heroes and steal games while wearing a cool mask. That’s good enough for John, until he realizes that there’s only one Patrick Roy and way too many kids who want to be him. So by the time he’s sixteen, John still wants a bit of Patrick Roy’s magic for himself, but he also sneaks beer and skips school and rides around in a car with his friends, laughing at nothing and thinking of cool tricks for practice.

John is handsome, and plenty of girls tell him so, some of the guys too, and he gives them what they want because he can and it’s no hardship. So when Katie from his class comes up to him all shy one day, he takes her out for a movie and ice cream and then fumbles his way through kissing her silly. And after Tom, one of his D-men whom John cornered after practice because Tom’s been acting all shifty around him all of a sudden, admits that he kinda wants to stick his hand down John’s pants, John lets him.

It’s not like it’s bad, but John doesn’t understand where all the hype comes from. According to what everyone and everything in life seems to tell him, there should be fireworks and butterflies in his stomach (which sounds uncomfortable, so maybe there’s at least some silver lining) and willingness to voluntarily touch someone even if they’re going through a particularly bad stage of acne. John is still waiting for the spark and the little bursts of happiness every time he sees someone he locked lips with. It never happens.

He keeps trying, poking the issue like a bruise, but it never lasts long. He's already used to not understanding the world; maybe one day he'll learn why other people want from him what they do, if he gives it enough time.

In the meantime, John takes every advance with an easy smile and an excuse about hockey—it’s amazing how many things you can blame on trying to focus on your game. All in all, John lies a lot. He prefers to think of it as playing his role.

 

 

Hockey is passion. It’s the one thing that makes John lose himself in something bigger, a pure shot of adrenaline right in the vein. John lives hockey and hockey lives him, but he’s not NHL-level and he’ll probably never be. Hockey is like second skin to him, and yet he’s not sure if he wants to give his all to it. Hockey isn’t the answer to everything; it sometimes seems to be, but that never lasts. There must be something bigger, something brighter, and John will find it one day, even though he has no idea where to look.

It's on another utterly boring school day when it comes to him instead. Brian is covertly showing him something on his phone; apparently he and his cousin aren’t beyond pranking their super uptight cat lady neighbor and making sure it’s well documented. The pictures are just a series of stills as she runs out of her house in just a nightgown and curlers like it’s the 70s or something, yelling when she sees her new garage door painted in rainbow colors with a giant Grumpy Cat in the middle. John finds it hysterical.

Ms. Graham drones on in the background; nobody ever pays attention in history class at the best of times, and she’s a bit nuts about European history. Today’s topic is the Industrial Revolution. As usual, it means Ms. Graham is trying to make sure they ‘understand the context’, as she likes to say. John isn’t sure what is there not to understand about the fact that at some point humanity started digging industrial production, but if his teacher wants to talk about all the scientific breakthroughs that led to it, he’s not going to stop her. Free country.

He’s finally managed to stop himself from laughing out loud at Brian’s contribution to class when the lecture registers. Apparently the root of everything revolutionary was Descartes and his basis for rationalism. It’s the talk about mechanics and automatons that piques John’s interest, and this whole distinction between humans and mechanisms and body and mind sounds pretty cool, but then Ms. Graham realizes how off-topic she’s again and tries to go back to her original point.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Ms. Graham, but could you tell us a bit more about Descartes?” That’s John’s voice. That’s his voice asking a question in history class, which he never ever pays attention in. Nobody’s more surprised than John himself, even though Brian’s gaping at him. So is Ms. Graham. She looks kind of funny, like that fact that somebody is interested in what she has to say caught her off-guard enough to freeze her on the spot. John guesses she wouldn’t make a very good Cartesian automaton.

“I, ah, sure. What would you like to know?” It takes her a moment to compose herself, and by the time she does, John is the recipient of more than one evil eye for speaking up with less than 10 minutes of the class to go. It’s enough to make John hesitate.

“Uh, the whole mind-body thing I guess. Like, how can you determine which is more important? There wasn’t any neurology back then, so what did Descartes do about it?” John gets quieter with every word, because the astonishment in his teacher’s face is, frankly, a little too much to bear. He’s not a complete meathead and this shit is interesting, okay? It’s not like he’s suddenly the second coming of Christ, Jesus.

Ms. Graham gives him an uncertain, tiny smile. “That’s a complicated question and I’m afraid we don’t have the time to discuss it here.” John slumps down in his chair. The whole idea is nagging at him like a particularly annoying itch. He wants to find out more about this. 

Ms. Graham goes on. “But if you’re really interested, I have a book about this in my office. I can lend it to you if you want?”

John would be thrilled, and he says as much. Brian and the rest of the team are going to give him so much shit for this. He doesn’t care.

By the time he’s done with _Meditations on First Philosophy_ , John is hooked.

 

 

Draft day comes and goes. John’s name isn’t called. He takes it as the sign it is.

He should probably be more heartbroken, given that his childhood dreams are now pretty much crushed, but at that point he’s through Kant’s _Prolegomena_ and started tentatively branching out into phenomenology. Heidegger is still a bit too advanced read for John, but he’ll get there. He hit the jackpot with college—Samwell has both a good hockey team and a decent philosophy department—so there’s not that much to regret anyway. He’s no less hungry for ice time, but there’s this whole area of existence he’s only just dipped his toe in, and he wants it all.

 

 

Samwell’s hockey team is new and familiar at the same time. John might be a frog, but he’s also a goalie, which gives him some leeway. Marsh slaps him on the back after the first practice, all 6′5″ of him making John stumble before he manages to catch himself.

“So, rookie, you know the campus yet?” Marshy booms. John refrains from pointing out that he got the tour just like everyone else. Berger does it for him anyway.

“Jesus, Marshy, leave the kid alone, he can manage.”

“I’m just looking out for our new goalie, man!” For a hulking defenseman, he looks way too earnest. “Besides, I bet nobody showed him the Haus yet. Have you seen the Haus?”

John hasn’t in fact seen the Haus, whatever it is. “Do I want to?” he asks cautiously, trying to find out what kind of a prank is coming his way.

Marshy just throws his arm around him. “Bro, the Haus is the heart of the team.” He starts dragging John out of the locker room, making him grateful that he at least managed to put his gear away. “It’s where the cool kids live. Don’t you major in philosophy or some shit?”

“Yeah?” John has no idea what that has to do with anything.

“Cool. We should call you Nietzsche. And maybe you can explain how something as awesome as the Haus can exist. Come on, we’ll show you. You’re gonna fit right in.”

John would have preferred to fit in without being basically a maid for the current residents of the Haus first, but he’ll take it.

 

 

Out of all the things his mom could worry about, up to an including having a dejected athlete of a son in college, she chooses his books.

“Honey, it’s summer break and you’re still at home. You used to be out all the time once school was over, but these days you’re all holed up in your room with all these books. Do you really have that much schoolwork during summer?”

John doesn’t remind her that he still keeps to his summer training schedule and that he went camping with his former classmates two weeks ago. “I just want to get ready for my courses, mom. There’s no harm in doing some reading in advance.” No harm either in taking a break from stuff like the farewell kegster, which still makes John’s liver shiver in fear. College is making him push boundaries of human endurance in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

His mom still looks unhappy, gazing at him with the sad, my-son-left-the-family-nest expression John has come to know too well over the past year. It gives him a stab of guilt; he knows she worries, just like he knows his dad is secretly disappointed that John hasn’t made it to the big show. But there’s nothing he can do about that, and besides, he’s fine. Not being drafted was probably the best thing that ever happened to him.

Mom is apparently burdened with bigger things.

"I know it’s not the same with the boys now that you’re all in different schools, but you can’t just mope around alone. Why don't you put down those textbooks and spend time with some nice girl instead?"

If only this was the first time John heard something like that in the month he’s been home. John highly doubts there’s a girl approximately his age in their neighborhood who wasn’t warned that he might be a decent lay but is no boyfriend material, and that’s mostly fine with him. He hoped his interest in people would spike in college, but if the Winter Screw is anything to go by, not much has changed.

Damn if he’s feeling like explaining all that to his mom though.

"Hannah Arendt is pretty interesting." It’s out of his mouth before he thinks better of it, and his mom latches onto it.

"Who's that? Is she in one of your classes?"

John sighs and goes back to his copy of _The Human Condition_.

 

 

Mom’s nagging eats at John more than he realizes, and the seed of doubt is still there when the next term starts. Maybe he could give dating a try again instead of bland one-night stands. Amy from his epistemology class is all kinds of awesome: she’s smart and funny, and John enjoys spending time with her and her wicked sense of humor. She’s got two brothers obsessed with baseball so she knows what it’s like to be around guys whose main concern is how the team’s doing, and despite that she still seems to like John.

John works up to asking Amy out slowly; he’s never been more nervous about anything. She says yes, and they click, and John thinks that this might be it, what he’s been looking for. Amy is fiery but delicate and he spoils her any chance he gets. She kicks his ass at chess and John ends up buying ice cream every time he loses. She comes to his games, and he’s there for her presentations, and if he still doesn’t get those butterflies, well; John’s pretty sure at this point that the whole love jitters thing is made up.

It goes swimmingly, until it doesn’t.

Spring is in full swing when Amy asks him to meet her by their favorite bench on campus. He brings two cups of coffee, like he always does. Amy smiles at him sweetly and takes a sip before she sets the cup aside and turns to him.

“I think we should break up.”

It hurts. That’s the first thing John realizes once he processes the words. It hurts, and he’s confused, and he thinks that maybe he just hasn’t shown her enough that—

“I care about you.” It probably won’t mean anything if she’s already made her decision, but John needs to say it because it’s _true_.

Amy gives him another smile at that; it’s a sad one, like she knows something John doesn’t. It makes him feel foolish.

“I know. And you’ve been great. But you don’t love me. Do you know that you flinch a little every time we kiss?”

John doesn’t. But Amy is his friend first and foremost, and he knows she wouldn’t lie to him, not about something like this. She’s always been the smarter one, the kinder one. He has no reason to doubt her, except for the part of him that feels like someone stabbed him.

And if what she says is right, then John has been an asshole this whole time.

“I never wanted to hurt you.” He almost grabs Amy’s hand in his need to make at least this one thing clear, but he’s not sure if he’s still allowed to. Amy does it for him, rubbing soothing circles over his knuckles, fingers ridiculously small and fragile compared to his.

“I know, and that’s why I let it go on for so long. I thought you might get over whatever the problem is, since it looked like you don’t even realize you’re doing it. But it’s been long enough, and I don’t think it’s fair to either of us to keep going like this.”

“I really like you, Am. You have to believe me.” John’s a broken record, but he can’t bear the idea of her thinking otherwise. He might not love her in the way she wants him to, but this at least he’s confident about.

“I do. And I like you too. I’m not going to disappear, but I can’t be your girlfriend.”

John swallows the bitterness. He wants to fight her, to argue his point like they’ve done dozens of times in class, but he can sense the truth of her words deep in his gut. In the end, he just nods. It’s all he can do. Looking up is beyond his power. He hunches in on himself, wishing he could do _something_. Disappear, maybe. He can glove a puck at any speed, but he can’t stop the guilt and humiliation spreading through him; can’t stop the unwanted and profound _relief_ over Amy’s decision.

Amy, who’s still there, drawing him in her arms.

“It’s okay, Johnny. You’re a good guy and you’ll find the right person one day. I’m sorry I’m not it.” She hugs him for a while, but eventually she kisses him on the forehead and walks away, taking his last hope with her.

John stays for a long time, clutching his cold coffee against the summer breeze. His mind is on a loop, a desperate, acidic merry-go-round of _what’s wrong with me_ and loneliness. What is he doing wrong that everyone else gets right? Why can’t he just be what other people want him to be? And in the midst of all that a tiny, traitorous, crystal-clear thought: _this wasn’t what you wanted anyway._

In a moment of objectivity, John realizes this isn’t something he can solve by himself. There’s simply not enough data for him to extrapolate from, not enough experience to compare. He could use a second opinion. But who do you talk to about being broken?

 

 

John ends up going to Shitty, because the guy might be younger but he’s a calming presence and his stash of weed is an axiom of the universe, which are few and far between, especially for someone like John who tends to get lost in his own head. He brings a six-pack with him.

The irony of having his existential crisis in front of the guy with the pornstache when _John_ is the one called Nietzsche doesn’t escape him.

Shitty regards him in his infinite sophomore wisdom. “Didn’t think you swing that way, Nietzsche.”

And well, yeah, John just laid out all his fucked up encounters up to an including the jocks, but it’s still wrong. He mulls it over, going over every time he tried to get close to someone like that, until it hits him. “I don’t think I swing at all.”

That arching eyebrow will do Shitty a great service in court, but it’s not exactly helpful here. John wonders if it would be, like, bad manners to raid more of that weed stash. He’s also a goalie, so he turns his own glare on in return and waits Shitty out, because you don’t fuck with your goalie literally _or_ figuratively, not when you’re a cocky know-it-all forward you don’t.

The eyebrow stays up for an impressive amount of time.

“Tough luck, bro. But hey, more ladies and gents for the rest of us, and a toast to that.” As if there’s even anything left in that beer can to toast with.

“Yeah, tough luck,” John mutters, suddenly done with all this. Turns out Shitty’s not done with him though, because he reaches for his laptop after a long gulp of yet more beer.

“Dude. You’re fucking weird, but it’s Nietzsche-weird, not lack-of-sex-weird. I bet there’s more people like you. Let’s google this shit.”

John’s first coming out will always be tied to cheap booze and Shitty’s delighted shoulder-punch as they’re hunching over the screen of his crappy laptop, google results a brilliant purple. It’s pretty decent as memories go.

 

 

After that, John doesn’t stop lying, exactly. He simply swaps outright fabrications for lies of omission. (At least the opinions on the latter vary among different schools of ethics.)

It’s John’s worldview that changes. It’s liberating to have a name for himself, like an invisible burden suddenly falling away, leaving only clarity in its wake. His inner optic recalibrates and shifts to a new setting, drawing new highlights in the outer world. There are way too many little stories around John, coming-of-age novellas mixed with romantic comedy in the way his classmates and team members and fans fumble through their own rites of passage. John still doesn’t care for any of it. He goes to class, protects his crease, and stays out of any and all love stories he can spot.

 

 

The chaos of graduation almost rivals the nervous activity of a locker room during playoff season, but John finds it easy as breathing and his parents seem to keep up. They’ve never been properly exposed to the Samwell part of his life yet; John’s dad is busy as it is and his mom says that she likes it more when John tells her all about it whenever he has the time to go home for a few days. John is more than proud to show off the campus and share the places that gave him some of his best memories.

People come up to them too; classmates and guys from the team stop by to greet John’s parents and wish him the best. John feels great, until his dad turns to him with a conspiratorial smile.

“So, son, is there someone special we should meet today?”

John almost stumbles on nothing on his way to the banquet set out for graduates and family by the lake. His stomach churns as he takes a good look at his dad’s face, open and full of expectation. John’s mother outright oozes encouragement, as if all he needs is a little nudge to somehow summon a girlfriend out of thin air. Usually John would be braced for it, but he didn’t expect any hints about his love life today, and it makes him angry that the old circus is apparently back in town even on his last day of college.

There’s enough spite boiling in his chest that when he spots a familiar flow in the crowd by the lake, he doesn’t think twice.

He turns to his dad with his best game-day grin firmly on his face, icy and sharp. “Yes, actually. I would like for you to meet someone.” His mom’s expression dims to uneasiness, but he ignores her. Instead he raises his voice so he can be heard over the general noise and chatter surrounding them.

“Shitty!” He yells and waits for Shitty to turn around before waving him over. John’s mom gives a barely audible gasp at the name. John feeds off it.

“Mom, dad, this is Shitty. Shitty, my parents.” John watches with dark satisfaction the way his mom’s polite smile freezes on her face despite Shitty being a perfect gentleman, claiming how pleased he is to make the acquaintance. Dad takes it better, but his internal panic is showing. John idly wonders if he’d get away with kissing Shitty’s cheek, just to amp the family drama up. But then Shitty gives him a nudge, and John knows better than to push it.

“Shitty is one of the other people who live in the Haus and a pretty special friend. He let me bounce ideas for my thesis off him for over a year, so it’s mostly his doing that I even finished the thing.”

“Ah.” John’s dad clears his throat, tries again. “That’s—real good of you. Thank you. John can dig really deep in those books of his, can’t he? I’m glad he has someone to keep up, because I certainly can’t.”

Shitty glazes over the awkwardness with the practiced ease of someone who’s used to initiating rookies. “It’s no trouble at all, Nietzsche here has some fascinating ideas about ethics. And I wholeheartedly believe that civil discussion and open mind are the best things education can give us, so I’m glad your son was bullheaded enough to argue with me about the key concepts of feminism until two in the morning.”

“How nice,” John’s mom pipes up, looking about two seconds away from fainting. John’s inner casual cruelty purrs happily. But, well, he _does_ have strong opinions on ethics, so fun times are probably over.

“Is Lardo around?” John asks, hoping to end this soon now that he got what he wanted.

“Yeah, she’s in the Haus, just in case pies appear. You know how Bitty is.”

“Man, I’ll miss the pies. I should probably go say goodbye before we leave—will you be alright here for a bit?” The last part is addressed to his parents, who look like they’d love nothing more than a minute to get their bearings. They certainly don’t protest when John and Shitty start making their way toward the Haus.

“Bro, that was evil,” Shitty says once they’re far enough. “I don’t know whether to be scared or impressed.”

“They deserve it.” This is probably the last chance John has to be an immature brat and he’ll take it, damn it.

“Impressed. I’m definitely impressed. Where have you been hiding all this pettiness until now?”

John levels Shitty with his best blank stare, just for old times’ sake. “Pettiness led to the creation of some of the greatest works on philosophy. It’s a good trait to cultivate.”

Shitty rolls his eyes and urges John toward the Haus. “Never change, Nietzsche. Never change.”

John would like that, but he doesn’t think it’s possible. Until now, John has been a philosophy major, someone whose possible future was still an embarrassment of riches. But now, with a goodbye party and self-imposed solitude, John isn’t anything, anything at all.

 

 

It’s a universally accepted fact that John rambles a lot, usually about stuff maybe two people in his classes get, one being the teacher and the other being John. John is made of words the same way he’s made of three posts and a net, and when there’s nobody to speak those words out loud to, they only swell and multiply in his own head. John’s mind are dozens of voices dissecting anything and everything, comparing empirical evidence to theory and discarding a hypothesis only to form two new ones, and the last time they fucking shut up was probably at the time of the 1054 supernova.

So yeah, John’s brain is going through 10 possible realities at any given time like Kwisatz Haderach in trance on an average day. Which would be fine if he could just settle on one once he has his degree in hand and a student loan looming on the horizon, but though majoring in philosophy gave him a surprising amount of life skills, the ability to miraculously procure a well-paid job is not among them.

It’s hard to commit to anything when you’re an undrafted goalie prone to some sort of vicious reverse form of solipsism. John figures he’ll just have to prove to himself the metaphysical soundness of, well, _something_ first. So he says goodbye to all his friends, packs a backpack and goes hiking through the Appalachian Trail.

Even inner voices as loud as the ones John always carries around give up when faced with the sheer, profound vastness of nature. No mom demanding a daughter-in-law and babies, no bank statements with depressingly small amounts of money, no teammates leaving bacon in his stuff because they once caught him reading _Novum Organum_ and think they’re hilarious. There’s no ice either, but John should probably get used to that. Instead he watches magnificent sunrises and feels like the last person on Earth. It’s more peaceful than John ever remembers being.

He’s three weeks in—tanned shoulders and blistered feet and his mind so blessedly quiet that it makes him cry tears of pure relief more than once—when the call comes.

John goes to the wild to find himself. Instead, the Maple Leafs find him.

 

 

The Maple Leafs should be renamed to Maple Gossips, because the way everyone on the roster sticks their nose in everyone else’s business puts Samwell to shame. The Marlies are not much better. Within two days of camp, John has been adopted by both Jonny Bernier (which is understandable) and Mo Rielly, who doesn’t let the fact that he’s pretty much still a baby get in the way of his mother hen nature. John is also promptly nicknamed Nietzsche again, because his major is hardly a secret and it’s not like hockey players are original.

John bounces between the Leafs and the Marlies for a season, hungry for any chance to play regardless of the league. He makes friends, plays way too much CoD, and goes out when it’s reasonable enough to do so because unlike Samwell, the Leafs organization enforces its opinions on diet and training routines. His teammates chirp him about not picking up, but it turns out the old trick with Hannah Arendt still works. Hyms gives John a sharp look the first time he mentions her, but he’s a bro and lets everyone else catch on at their own pace. By the time they do, John’s supposed celibacy is just another bullet point on his long list of quirks.

 

 

The offseason is full of expectations and nervous energy. A lot of the guys are looking forward to the draft: the Leafs have the first pick overall, and Mitch—who’s technically not even a Leaf yet since he’s still stuck in the OHL—won’t shut up about Auston Matthews and how they’re going to be great.

John might only know Mitch Marner from a few training camp sessions and a _lot_ of unnecessary texts, but he gets that Mitch is a glass half-full type of guy. John wishes he could be this optimistic, but he’s too worried about his own end of the ice. Reim is gone and so will be Jonny; John himself is just a backup of a backup who got lucky and was called up for a few games. They’re effectively without goalies and John is half-dreading what the team is going to look like when the next season starts, regardless of if they do or don’t draft generational talents. He sees the tension in the team’s veterans, too; there’s a change coming, and nobody knows yet if it’ll be a good one.

John isn’t the only one who wastes their free time guessing upcoming trades and signings. Hyms drags him out for a run and breakfast and then spends most of the meal speculating about who’s going to be John’s brother in pads. John appreciates his enthusiasm, but he should probably halt Hyms in his tracks before he starts believing in the impossible.

“Bro, there’s no way I’ll stay up. They’ll probably get some big shot goalie and a vet to back him. I’ll be back in the Marlies before you can say ‘maple syrup’.”

Hyms glares at him. “They don’t need a vet when they have you to back up whichever hotshot they sign. You’re solid and also crazy like a whole bag of bats. I don’t know why they’d need to bring even more madmen in the mix.”

John mock-salutes him with his smoothie. “Hear the wisdom of he who got called up for like 10 games and suddenly understands the minds of GMs and coaches.”

Hyms throws a piece of a waffle at him. “Fuck you, Nietzsche. Like you haven’t been checking goalie stats for the past week.”

John has, but that’s beside the point. Hyms must realize how unnerved John is about it all, because he mutters something about neurotic goalies and switches to his ‘I am about to impart life hacks on you’ mode, which usually comes with a hilariously serious expression. John has no idea why he’s always being babied by guys younger than him, like the simple fact that he prefers stopping pucks over shooting them somehow makes him a volatile substance.

“Look, Johnny, I can’t believe I even have to say it, but you’re good enough for the NHL. And you’d better work your ass off to stay in it, because I and Willy and all your other friends are gonna get out of training camp victorious and unless you do too, you’ll be left all alone and sad in the Marlies. Understood?”

“Yeah,” John says, his voice rough. He tries again. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

A couple of weeks later, Jonny Bernier is gone for good and the Maple Leafs have signed Frederik Andersen.

 

 

John gets Andersen’s number from Leo. He doesn’t even ask for it; Leo just forwards it to him without explanation. John supposes there’s some sort of Scandinavian-ish network in place and that Willy or someone else gave John a vote of confidence.

He’s not really sure what to do with the number, besides the obvious. He never met Andersen; one being a college goalie and the other a European prospect with bad luck in teams, they never crossed paths. John knew _of_ Andersen, vaguely, even before the trade, the way all goalies in the league keep cursory tabs on their brethren; it’s not that hard to cultivate a sense of understanding with someone from another team when you attend the same limited amount of camps and only rarely end up punching each other in the face.

But John hasn’t gone on a YouTube spree until after the trade, and he’s been a bit overwhelmed since. He can see from Andersen’s highlights why the Leafs would want him: he’s big, filling the crease like it was built _around_ him, and he plays an aggressive style that nonetheless allows him to set up patiently for shots. He’s unflappable in his net, and the Leafs could really use a rock right now. The highlights focus on neck-breaking desperate saves, but John is a big fan of the way Andersen manages to track the puck through traffic and outmaneuver the shooters.

In the end, John stomps down hard on his fanboying and tells himself to stop being a chicken. It takes him solid 10 minutes of agonizing over what to write before he settles on the easiest solution.

_Hey, this is John Johnson from the Leafs. Welcome to the team._

He tries to calculate the time difference, already chiding himself for timing this wrong, but he only needs to wait a few minutes for a reply.

_hey_

_thanks_

_hear you &I r gonna put the league on its knees_

_also full sentences_

_I like it ;)_

It’s not what John expected; hell, it’s better. It’s a start.

 

 

They don’t text much over the summer, but they manage to talk in bits and pieces enough that John is looking forward to finally meeting Frederik “call me Freddie” Andersen in person at camp.

Willy keeps ribbing him about it, because he’s a lazy fucker and doesn’t have anything better to do with his time. John only tolerates the trash talk because he knows that unlike Mitch, Willy hasn't met Auston Matthews yet, and that’s going to be a way bigger spectacle than John coming face-to-face with their new starter.

Sure enough, everyone swarms around Matthews on the first day of camp, Willy leading the herd while trying—and failing—to be suave. Mitch gets a lot of love, too; pretty much everyone remembers him from last year, and at least half of those who met him are already enamored. Mitch has that effect on people.

John makes his rounds slowly. He’s in no hurry to unpack his gear, and this way he can greet familiar faces and get a read on the newbies. He knows Freddie is already somewhere in the building but management wanted to see him first because of some lingering paperwork. (Half of their snapchat history is Freddie in different phases of frowning at the world trying to complicate Freddie’s life, and today is no different. John’s a bit worried about Freddie’s mental state after he meets the rest of the team because the Leafs _spell_ complications.)

Freddie finally comes in when John is halfway through putting his gear on. All eyes are on him the moment he enters the locker room. He’s hard to overlook: at 6′4″ and with bright ginger hair, Freddie doesn’t exactly blend in even in a room full of hockey players. He looks just the way his official photos portray him, calm and composed even as he greets the room at large and lets their expectations settle on him along with the curious looks. Someone already brought his gear in and he doesn’t waste time making his way to the goalie locker.

“Hey, John,” Freddie says when he stops in front of him. He doesn’t exactly give John a smile, but there’s a tiny quirk to his lips that might be the beginning of one. John already knew from tape to expect someone deadpan, but all their messages and emojis made him forget just how stone-faced Freddie is supposed to be. “Good to see you.”

John carefully puts his pads back down so he can shake Freddie’s hand, but before he can open his mouth, Willy already manages to butt in. Apparently he’s over being starstruck around Matthews, at least for long enough to get more ammo on John.

“Hey yourself, gorgeous. I’m Willy. And did this dude really tell you to call him John? Because nobody in this locker room ever does.”

Freddie raises an eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed. “Oh?”

“Just call him Nietzsche like the rest of us. Actually, maybe just—”

Willy rambles on, blissfully unaware of the exasperated look John shares with Freddie. This time, he does get a smile in return.

 

 

Guys usually either sleep on the plane or watch anything from tape to movies, if one doesn’t count the Leafs’ ongoing card group. John prefers to read; he doesn’t get as much time off from hockey as he used to have at Samwell, so he squeezes his reading wherever he can. Besides, the nice thing about having NHL-level salary is that he’s finally able to afford all the books printed instead of reading on his phone or laptop and straining his eyes. Reading on the plane is sometimes the highlight of his whole day. The team’s used to it; they stopped asking him to join the occasional game ages ago.

Nobody told John’s fellow goalie.

Freddie parks himself right next to John on their flight to Florida, leaning over his shoulder. For someone more often taciturn than not, he’s pretty social when they’re travelling, at least until he manages to fall asleep.

“What are you reading?” he asks once he realizes John doesn’t have his phone in hand or any TV show queued up. John’s distracted, trying to follow an argument, so he only replies with a vague hand wave and “Philosophy.”

“Wow. I thought you were done with school already.”

John looks up from his book almost unwillingly. “I am. But I studied it because I like it. I won’t stop reading up on it just because I’m a hotshot in the NHL now.” He knows he sounds defensive, but Freddie’s not the first person asking about it, like it’s unbelievable that he can be a professional athlete _and_ have academic interests at the same time. John remembers Ms. Graham; she’d have had something to say to his teammates.

Freddie raises an eyebrow at the hotshot comment, but he backs off. “That’s cool. I just didn’t want to bother you if you were getting work done for a class or something.”

“Oh.” That’s kind of nice. John might have lashed out a bit.

Freddie snorts. “It’s fine. So which philosopher got you so caught up that you’re ignoring everyone else?”

Not helping, not that Freddie knows that. John rubs his fingers on the spine of the volume, hesitating a little. “Søren Kierkegaard.” He lifts the book so Freddie can look at the front cover, _Fear and Trembling_ written on it in elegant cursive. A poetic choice, and one most of this plane would never let him live down if they saw the book, just because of the title.

He must have surprised Freddie, because he just studies the book silently for a moment. “You pronounce it almost right,” he says in the end. “But why Kierkegaard?”

If John wanted to be truthful, he’d answer that he was inspired by the recent developments in his life, but he’d rather bite his tongue off than do that. “It’s on my bucket list. I’m more of a metaphysics guy but I can’t pass over the first existentialist, can I?”

“And I bet you’re getting a kick out of the fact that he uses so many pseudonyms and fictional narrators that nobody knows for sure which opinions are his own and which he’s making fun of.” Freddie snorts again when John gapes at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in obvious amusement. “He’s kinda big back in Denmark. We learned some stuff about him in school, even had to do a bit of mandatory reading.”

John closes his book. “Yeah, that’s fun to read about. But I think that he just mocked everybody. Sounds like a real charmer. Is that a Danish trait?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

John turns in his seat so he can see Freddie better, setting his book aside in the process. “Tell me all about it.”

 

 

After some games, the team goes out to a club, mainly because taking Auston and Mitch somewhere in Canada where they can drink— with some creative distribution of alcohol—is still new enough to be fun. John watches his team mingle and sticks to his beer, remembering to pace himself. The amount of people and strange drinks reminds him of Samwell, and he spends a few minutes reminiscing about the legendary drinking stories his name will forever be linked to. He should stop by the Haus when he has some free time, try to terrorize the new frogs now that Bittle is all grown up. He idly wonders how many college soap operas he’s missed since he graduated.

Freddie makes his way over from the other table, clinking his own beer against John’s. They’ve become pretty good friends, especially since they room together on roadies. John is aware of the breath of relief the coaching staff breathed once it became apparent that he and Freddie can coexist peacefully. He knows Freddie noticed it too—they talked about it, just like they talk about anything and everything when the mood strikes. It’s hard to blame the management for paranoia when you have a team with a history of goalie rivalries, but what would they do if John and Freddie couldn’t stand each other? Send them to couple counseling?

Freddie scans the crowd slowly and John does the same. There’s Willy chatting up two girls at once. Brownie is out dancing with someone, while Kappy was obviously sent to the bar for shots—how he managed to get anything other than a glass of milk despite his baby face, the world will never know.

“You know, you’re never out there with them,” Freddie remarks, still studying the people around them. “Always just some light conversation, a few beers, then going home alone. Never like him.” He nods at Willy, who is leaning closer to one of his girls, all charming smile and honeyed words.

John figured out Freddie enough by now to know that his light, almost bored tone hides real interest in John’s answers but that he won’t push for them. He tips his head back, studying the dizzying lights of the club.

“I’m just here for moral support and to make sure the stragglers get home in one piece.”

Freddie considers that, humming. “There are always more people on babysitting duty than just you. You could get wasted or pick up once in a while.”

John sighs, gaze fixed on Willy. He’s going to score tonight. Good for him, even though John doesn’t see the point. But he remembers that he used to once upon a time, so he can hardly judge. As for now— 

“I don’t see the appeal.”

Freddie nods, like John said something right instead of simply giving the honest reply. It’s a curious thing, the honesty; John is used to making up little lies to refrain from having to employ any big ones, but he can be frank with Freddie. Sometimes he wonders how much it would take to break Freddie’s unshakeable calm. Not a lot, he supposes. Freddie is an intense guy under all that zen. It’s bubbling just below the surface, a volcano under control only thanks to sheer force of will. It’s why the team picked him, why it clicks; how can you not have wings when your last line of defense is a force of nature? John suspects all it would take to make Freddie erupt is one well-timed hit where it hurts, but that’s not something John ever wants to try. He doesn’t think he’d be successful anyway. John is harmless to Freddie in the same way Freddie is safe enough for John to speak his mind. It’s why they work.

Freddie doesn’t say anything more, and neither does John.

Sometimes, Freddie and John are silent together, and that’s fine too.

 

 

The Bell Centre is jeering, chanting Freddie’s name. John winces from his spot on the bench at the sound. He hears Coach barking out orders to all lines, but nothing they try plugs the gaping, bleeding holes in their defense. The team scrambles around the blue line, helplessness rising at every wasted opportunity to score while the numbers on the board keep tipping more and more in their disadvantage.

The team’s having a shitty night, and so is Freddie. John stretches his legs as much as he can on the little stool the Habs provide for their visiting goalies. He already made his way through his breathing exercises and moved on to subtle visualizations, hoping no camera will catch him tracking imaginary shapes in the air. He’s going in for the next period.

When Freddie lets in a muffin halfway through the game from fucking Markov of all people, putting up the Habs 5-0, John knows his time is up.

He’s grabbing his mask even before Coach yells at him to get his ass out on the ice. He sees Freddie notice the movement and the signal for him to come back, and steps on the ice just as Freddie grabs his bottle, leaving the crease slowly in tune with the home crowd’s mocking cheers. These are the moments that make John grateful for their masks; neither his nor Freddie’s expression is visible to the cameras, even though the tension in Freddie’s shoulders is hard to miss. John taps Freddie’s pads in acknowledgement as they pass each other, and then focuses on trying to save this clusterfuck of a game.

Pulling the goalie makes their forward lines get their heads out of their asses for long enough to put a point on the scoreboard, but that’s all they manage. The final score is 1-5 and they can’t get off the ice fast enough.

At least the flight back to Toronto is mercifully short, which means the coaches can’t yell at them for nearly as long as they probably want to. Freddie stomped angrily towards the back of the plane as soon as they boarded. John has half a mind to just leave him be despite Mo’s significant looks, but when all the ass-chewing is over for now, Mitch turns to him and pouts.

“Nietzsche.” He’s doing the whole remorseful, puppy eyes thing. Like John can singlehandedly fix the fact that their whole team suddenly forgot how to play hockey and their starting goalie is pissed.

“No.” John gets it, he does; the guys are sorry, and it’s not unreasonable to think that John is the one best suited to deal with Freddie, but they don’t _understand_. It’s hard to relate to how it feels when you let in five easy goals in under 30 minutes. Freddie’s mostly pissed at himself, not the rest of the team, and for once John thinks leaving him alone to process it is the best way to go.

But now even Auston is looking at him with some sort of silent plea, and that’s just unfair.

“Always the one to fix your damn mess,” John huffs and climbs out of his seat. Mitch beams at him, ever the master of emotional blackmail.

Freddie doesn’t acknowledge John when he flops down right next to him in the relative privacy of the last row of seats, but John didn’t expect him to. At least he’s not feigning sleep; that would just be insulting.

He digs out his headphones and throws them in Freddie’s lap along with his phone. Freddie still won’t look at him, but he unlocks the phone like someone who’s been shamelessly beating all John’s records in games for weeks. John has a playlist named “Fuck All The Things” that Freddie likes but is too lazy to copy. It does the trick.

Freddie wordlessly tries to hand the phone back once they land, but John pushes it back at him. “Come over. I’ll drive you to practice in the morning.”

They blast the playlist in the car and don’t speak.

 

 

Back at his place, John waves a still mostly non-verbal Freddie in the direction of the couch before making a quick detour to the kitchen to microwave pre-made dinner and grab something to drink. Mindful of the coaching staff’s ire, he goes for the non-alcoholic option and dumps his haul on the table in his living room. For a while, the silence is disturbed only by the sounds of two people trying to stuff themselves full with as much carbs as possible.

John’s done eating first, and his mood has already taken a turn towards happier. “So, Mario Kart?”

“I’m tired,” Freddie mumbles between gulps of Gatorade. So is John, but since they ended up splitting ice time tonight, they’ll both live and Freddie’s excuses have no weight. It’s strange; at any given time Freddie is the oasis of calmness that the rest of the team drinks from when shit goes down. He’s doing his best to seem impassive even now, even when John can see right through him. He’s certainly blamed himself for more bad games than John has ever had to. John wonders if Freddie would be breaking things if he was alone right now.

It’s hard to be the goalie who’s shouldering all the hopes of a notoriously Not Good Enough franchise. John is free of that burden, because John is replaceable; a footnote in Freddie’s biography, if he’s lucky and their paths merge for long enough. Freddie doesn’t have that luxury.

John worries, not for the first time, how quickly is that weight wearing Freddie down.

“Come on, Princess Peach. Show me how it’s done.” The look Freddie gives him could cut stone, but he doesn’t protest when John gets up to start the game.

“You know,” John says lightly when Freddie’s princess overtakes Bowser in a sweet move that John doesn’t even have it in him to be mad about, “Kierkegaard says that despair comes among other things from the desire to be someone else than you are. And sure, his solution is to, like, accept God’s love and have faith, but maybe you could just, I don’t know, have faith in your skills and stay true to yourself.”

Freddie just rolls his eyes and makes his kart cut a corner in a way that wouldn’t be possible in the real world, but the small cloud of frustration over his head shrinks just a little.

“You’re still reading that?”

“Fucking right I am. It’s good stuff. Best thing Denmark ever produced, since you’re secretly a Weasley.”

“Fuck you, you American heathen,” Freddie snaps, but he also cracks a smile (and wins the race). And when John pours two mugs of coffee in him in the morning, he even makes omelets for breakfast.

 

 

The team kicks off its bye week with a team-building exercise. Which would be fine if management haven’t decided to take the “team-building” part and replace it with “survival”. And that’s how John finds himself on a lake shore in a goddamn forest in the middle of nowhere with 20 other guys, some tools, not nearly enough food, and instructions to make themselves at home in what looks like a sad attempt at cottage while trying not to freeze to death overnight. In January.

There are only two explanations for this: either someone on the Leafs is too cheap to pay for a training with special forces like all the other teams do, or a slasher movie is about to happen. The betting pool is currently leaning towards the latter. John has done a lot of stupid shit in his time, usually of the booze-induced variety, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve this even so.

After a lot of unnecessary bitching, they divide into groups. Leo leads his guys off to check if there is any way to fix anything about the ruin they’re supposed to sleep in. Naz gets the guys who know something about forests and sets to explore the ‘available resources’. John’s group is in charge of starting a fire and generally finding a way to keep them alive through the night. Freddie’s guys are on firewood duty.

John’s fed up with attempts to coax the ancient fireplace in the cottage to life and trying to find some magic that would provide them with more food by the time Freddie’s group is coming back. The sun is already low on the horizon when they return, Freddie hauling in what looks like a whole and very dry tree, at least for a forest in winter.

Mitch managed to find a couple of lamps earlier—no electricity in the cottage, of course; they should be glad it’s at least big enough to accommodate them all—and the whole place is lit up with soft, yellow light that’s a pretty big change from the usual sharp lights of the rink. Freddie takes his coat off and starts going through his pockets, looking for something, and John is caught up in how different he looks in the light. It softens his features a little, blunts the intensity that Freddie takes with him everywhere he goes. The low light and shifting shadows give him a hint of a halo, making his hair stand out like it’s on fire.

John knew, in an abstract way, that Freddie was handsome, but this is the first time he’s fully _realizing_ it.

He must make some sort of noise, because Willy takes one look at John’s face, follows the direction of his gaze, and promptly starts laughing. “Oh god, I see how it is,” he wheezes, entirely too amused by John’s deer-in-the-headlights act. Hyms elbows him, because Hyms is the only actual adult on this fucking team.

“Jesus, Willy, leave him alone. Courtship is a delicate process, don’t rush them.”

John takes it all back. He’ll _make sure_ this is a slasher movie. He’s going to kill them all with his bare hands.

Freddie, of course, chooses that moment to saunter up to them and present John with his find. They’re protein bars, John’s favorite kind in fact—he’s a sucker for cranberry flavor. “Let’s eat these and let the rest of these assholes starve,” Freddie says loud enough to get a round of objections in return before leaning in close and lowering his voice. “Gotta make sure my backup is well-fed and sated, right?”

If Willy’s ugly snort-giggling is any indication, John wasn’t the only one who heard that.

He’s so, so fucked.

 

 

The season ends way too early at the hands of the Bruins, which prompts Shitty to send John semi-apologetic texts on behalf of his city of residence. John doesn’t reply to them; he’s disappointed and exhausted, and the only silver lining is that he’s healthy, or whatever passes as healthy after a round of playoff hockey.

Most of the boys stay in town, unwilling to let the season end this easily and equally unwilling to watch who goes on to win it all. Some bargain with the management and leave for greener pastures. Freddie is one of them, hopping on a plane to backstop Denmark at the Worlds.

John and Auston go see him off at the airport, John because he’s unwilling to part this quickly and Auston because he’s Auston and loves watching John suffer as much as he likes blatantly pawing at Freddie in a quest to prove he’s his favorite. (John suspects it’s at least partly to annoy Mitch, but since Auston was also the only other person besides John to help create the right mix of encouragement and yelling when Freddie was going through his slump mid-season, John lets it go.)

“You better bring us back something nice from Denmark,” Auston says even though Freddie’s only reply always is that he should come visit and do his own damn shopping.

“…like a medal,” John adds before they start squabbling over how much of a cold-hearted bitch Freddie has to be to his friends, really, Freddie, I’d think you’d realize by now that not a single person on the team buys your shitty uncaring act, you fucking softie.

Both Auston and Freddie are already taking a breath to start their usual exchange, but Auston snorts at that and Freddie takes his frown down a notch or two, so it’s safe to say the danger is averted.

“I’ll bring a medal just for you,” Freddie promises solemnly, looking John straight in the eyes. It warms John to hear the seriousness in his voice, even if it’s going to turn into a joke in two seconds. Freddie takes a step closer, still all earnest. “Auston can choke on his Team USA jersey when we wipe the ground with you guys.”

John grins, even though technically that’s an insult to him too, but he doesn’t even care. “Have a safe flight,” he tells Freddie instead, and hugs him for longer than strictly necessary. So does Auston, if only to punch Freddie in the shoulder before letting go. “We’re gonna murder you and you’ll fucking like it. U.S. of A., baby.”

Freddie just laughs his ass off all the way to his gate.

Auston and John are carpooling, so Auston is right at his elbow when John notices the little mermaid keychain in one of the airport trinket shops on their way out. He snaps a pic and sends it to Freddie, telling him to bring back the big one instead of a medal.

Auston just snorts. “You two are hopeless. Gretzky help us all.”

John doesn’t know what Auston is talking about and he’ll stick to that until the day he dies.

 

 

Summer is long. John spends a lot of time golfing with the boys when he’s still in Toronto and talking shit on the team group chat after he returns home, but it’s not the same as having hockey. By the time training camp is about to start, John is almost looking forward to it; he’s rested, hopefully in shape and ready to give his best.

The first few days of camp prove him otherwise. There’s not a muscle in John’s body that isn’t aching, and he’s vaguely considering switching careers. There must be _some_ job where his degree would come in handy.

He whines about it to Freddie, who imperiously called John over for lunch on their first day off. John missed the asshole too, but he’s not feeling particularly charitable now that he’s back in proper chirping distance and Freddie’s team was the one that won yesterday’s scrimmage. At least he gets free food out of it.

Freddie kicks John in the shin until he moves enough to make space on the couch he’s usurping with ESPN as the background noise. He drops a bag on John’s stomach before sitting down next to him.

“Stop acting like a baby and open this.”

John sits up, fingers digging into the plastic. “What is it?”

Freddie just smirks, the slow one that usually comes with either a particularly good prank or after a shutout. “Your birthday present.”

And that’s fair; Freddie was in Denmark for John’s birthday and only sent him a ridiculous snapchat and a text in Danish, the content of which John still isn’t sure about because Google Translate sucks. Something about trouble with birds, or maybe troubled birds, who the fuck even knows. The point is, there’s been no gag gift delivered to John’s door, so he supposes this is it.

At least whatever’s in the bag is soft. John can survive a lacy nightgown or maple leaf swimming trunks. He might even cope with something along the lines of a “Freddie is my god” t-shirt, even though that’s a little too close to home, not that John is ever going to tell anyone that.

There’s indeed a t-shirt in the bag, but when John unfolds it, all he can manage is a surprised, delighted gasp of laughter. It says “Nietzsche Demolition Co.” over a picture of a hammer, complete with a tiny portrait of Nietzsche himself. The handle of the hammer is bright orange, just like tiny Nietzsche’s hard hat. John isn’t sure if Freddie chose that color deliberately or if he’s just overthinking it.

It’s perfect.

He strips his tank so he can put it on, fabric sliding smoothly over his shoulders. Just his size, even now that he’s all bulked up before the new season takes its toll on his body. John loves it.

“Thanks, dude. This is the best.”

Freddie is still looking smug, like he knew what chaos he’d wreck with a piece of clothing, and it’s so much like Freddie that all John can do is grin at him, even when Freddie milks it.

“Like Kierkegaard is the best thing to come out of Denmark?”

And John can’t help it; he can feel an overwhelming wave of fondness rising in his chest, making him all but choke on how much he missed this, all the ways Freddie feels familiar while still managing to surprise John over and over again. It’s a lot, and John knows there’s no chance that he can hide his pure, simple delight over having Freddie and his dumb, perfect gifts in his life, no way he can come across as mocking, so instead he looks Freddie in the eye and opts for helpless honesty.

“Just the second best, I think.”

It’s hardly a surprise when Freddie leans in and kisses John. It’s easy as breathing, and John hates it as much as he did with all the other people. He relaxes, letting Freddie do as he wishes, but by then Freddie is pulling back, careful.

“Did I misread this?”

“You didn’t,” John says, and tries to close the gap between them again. For once in his life, his words are true; he would have been blind not to notice the way they gravitate towards each other, how it felt inevitable even before the offseason, like an outcome settled the moment they both made it to the Leafs. It’s worth whatever John will have to sacrifice. He can do this; after all, he lies so well. (It would be stranger if he couldn’t, after all the years of detached observation. He knows how to take action, just this once.)

But Freddie won’t have it. “Tell me.”

And fuck, John has to do it right here and now, doesn’t he: shatter his chances before they even appear. After all, who would want someone like him, a man who has nothing to give? John unravels, mind going in every possible direction in a desperate attempt to get out of the discussion he never planned on having.

Freddie is looking at him—what else would he be doing? A stoic gaze; one that John likes to think would suit Seneca himself, one that isn’t giving anything away. A true goalie stare. Maybe they should start a school: modern stoicism for those who tend goal and other disciples. He reaches out, because he can and he’s done things he can do all his life, on top of all those he didn’t want to. His fingers brush under and around that stare, marveling at the unwavering focus on him, committing it to memory. Dropping his hand, John closes his eyes. The Appalachian Trail stretches across his eyelids, quelling his words and their footnotes and _but_ s and rambles on how relative and fleeting all concepts of relationships and humanity itself are. Every single one of John’s inner voices goes silent and with them the dozens of futures this conversation could lead to.

After all, what needs to be said is simple, even though the illusion of _simple_ is the biggest lie of them all.

“You didn’t misread. Not exactly. But I don’t dig the kissing. Or sex. Or giving each other heart-shaped necklaces on Valentine’s Day or whatever people do. With anyone.” John’s hands refuse to shake. His voice is a lazy drawl. He has that much, so who cares if he won’t open his eyes?

The silence that follows is thoughtful. John is being waited out, which shouldn’t come as a surprise either, but it still makes him huff grumpily when centuries pass before he finally blinks open in the afternoon sunlight to a sight he wouldn’t think possible. Freddie might seem unfazed to a casual observer, but John knows better. John knows Freddie like he knows his pads. He sees the confused crease of Freddie’s brow and the frustrated twist to his mouth, the way he’s holding himself almost rigid. It’s not what John wanted—not what he expected. No determination or anger, just a silent plea for better explanation. In hindsight, John’s attempt to simplify might have left out some important details.

John does his best to ignore the veiled hurt in Freddie’s eyes while he rearranges his words and plucks out the best ones.

“It’s not simply friendship,” he adds, softer. “Hyms is a friend. So is Willy. This is… more. You are more.”

Funny how all the eloquent books and lessons in Derrida-style deconstruction make themselves scarce when you need them.

Freddie considers him for a long time. John tries not to squirm, instead burrowing deeper into the couch than he already has. He knows this part of the dance. Some things you can’t explain even if you try your best, and then your dance partner walks away. John hoped this time might be different, but hope is stuff from fairy tales, too.

It’s a relief when the silence finally snaps, even though whatever’s coming next can’t possibly be better.

“What do you want it to be?”

A simple enough question. It throws John for a loop. John _knows_ Freddie, every little twitch and glance, but he’s never been good at predicting what Freddie’s going to _say_.

“If this is more,” Freddie presses on, “what do you want out of it?”

 _I want to claim you for myself,_ John doesn’t say. Mostly because it’s borderline stalker-ish. Besides, damn if John knows how to even go about staking a claim on someone in a situation like his.

He takes a deep breath and lets all the dumb things rattling around the corners of his mind fall out. “I want us to belong to each other. Raise the Cup together, adopt a cat, play Mario Kart when we’ve had a shitty game, even if the guys laugh at us. Dude, I’ll deal with your nonverbal, coffee-deprived zombie ass in the mornings whenever you stay the night. I even want to meet your crazy ginger family, I mean, if you can guarantee I’ll survive. I just want to be with you. We can have fancy dates or hang out at home or whatever you want, I just.” John knows he’s babbling again. He’s also probably never been this embarrassed in his entire life, but he still wants to say this right, even if he can’t possibly have a shot. He owes that much to himself, possibly to Shitty as well, and definitely to Freddie.

Freddie, who is currently doing his best rendition of deadpan, which means he’s secretly amused at John’s expense.

“So basically you want us to be an old married couple.”

That would normally make John laugh, but all he manages is a weak grin. “Yeah. Yes. I get microwave duty and you can nag at me for leaving socks on the floor. I’ll even let you be the big spoon.” The look Freddie gives him at that makes it clear that John wouldn’t have a choice anyway.

“Partners, then,” Freddie offers slowly, as if he needs to taste the word first before approving it. John gives it a try himself; it’s stretchy on his tongue, a solid word with plenty of meanings and possibly the space for one or two more. It’s one-size-fits-all and far from perfect, but still better than “friends”. It will—would—do.

“Partners,” he echoes, even though what he was thinking of was more along the line of “soulmates”. There would have been time for that later, if this whole game of 20 questions wasn’t pointless.

“And sex is off the table.” It’s not a question, more a follow-up on something already decided. The tone thaws John a bit, allows him to be honest.

“It, ah, doesn’t have to be. I don’t go looking for it, but I’m okay with it. I mind it less than the kissing.”

He’s completely serious, trying to lay it all out as frankly as he can, but it still makes Freddie chuckle. “That’s—”

“Weird. Yes. I’d appreciate it if people stopped saying things I already know.” Which is hypocritical because John puts a lot of effort into deliberately being just the right amount of weird, but he doesn’t want to be that to Freddie. The thought hurts more than the inevitable rejection that he knows is coming.

“John.” Freddie leans closer, plants himself right in John’s personal space—for the first time since the kiss. Whatever he’s about to say, he’s sure. Resolute. John can sense the finality, tries to brace for it and fails.

“John,” Freddie repeats. “You’re offering more than you think you are. And I’ll take it.”

The meaning takes a moment to sink in, surprise on its heels. That’s not how this conversation was supposed to go.

“Really?” John hates how small his voice sounds, how desperately he wants to use every bit of hope that he didn’t manage to stomp to death yet. But Freddie is calm as always, steady like a rock.

“Really.”

“But I’m…” John trails off. After all, Freddie knows John, too. He knows well enough what John is or isn’t. John allows a hesitant smile to pull on the corners of his lips, enough to sweep the cobwebs out of all the spaces inside himself that he'd made for another person a long time ago and never used.

He’s rewarded when Freddie gives his own rarest, private smile in return.

“We’ll make it work.”

There are so many good reasons to protest and at least a dozen of books in John’s bookshelf with pages upon pages on why this is a bad idea, but in the end—John’s ashen heart makes its own decisions, and Freddie has something nobody else in the world does: its trust.

John takes Freddie’s hand and steps into the narrative.

He might be something after all.

**Author's Note:**

> And then the team found out and there was many a chirp, to which Freddie replied “wait till I put a Stanley Cup ring on it”.
> 
> This was originally supposed to be funny, believe it or not. Instead it’s self-insert as fuck. Life, eh?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] And the fault is my own](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17200298) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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